


The Brotherhood

by CaptainSaltyMuyFancy



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Gods of the Arena, Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Character Study, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Explicit Language, Fan Lore, Ficlet Collection, Gap Filler, Gen, Headcanon, Headcanon Lore, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Missing Scene, Multi, Side Story, Titus and Quintus are two different types of pieces of shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27476614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSaltyMuyFancy/pseuds/CaptainSaltyMuyFancy
Summary: A collection of ficlets exploring the lives and stories of some of the gladiators from Ludus Batiatus (and eventually other characters) before, during, and after the rebellion.
Relationships: Fulco/Original Female Character (Ernine), Litaviccus & Castus, Litaviccus & Heracleo, Litaviccus & Titus Lentulus Batiatus, Lydon & Original Character(s), Titus Lentulus Batiatus & Quintus Lentulus Batiatus
Kudos: 4





	1. Litaviccus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated this chapter with some more background information because my semester just ended and I have more time to do research that isn't class-related. At first I just wanted to get the story started and it wasn't as fleshed out as I would have liked, but I'm happier with it now.

He left home to see the sea. The life of a farmer and a shepherd was the best he could hope for if he roamed no farther than his family's lands. His future was already written: tend the goats and cows, till the fields, bring crops to market, marry a local girl and raise a family, pass on his knowledge. To live and farm as the last three generations of his family had lived and farmed.

But his grandmother said he had his ancestors' wandering soul, his heart built to carry him across land and sea. Their people had lived so before the rise of King Massinissa, before the court of the great king of Numidia granted their family lands for farming just northwest of Lambaesis. His great-grandfather built a grand home, and their farm prospered, providing a comfortable life for their entire family.

But the sea called to him, sang to him in his dreams. At night when he slept, thousands upon thousands of turquoise glass beads like the ones his grandmother made would rain down upon him, lift him up, and flow like a river out to the coast, carrying him with it. His father's oldest sister could interpret dreams (so she claimed, anyway), and she foretold he had a great destiny awaiting him, far from their family's land. So when he came of age, he received his family's blessing to leave home, to travel to the city and earn money to send back.

The journey to Cirta in the northeast was just less than three days, and another three or so days to reach Hippo Regis on the coast. It was supposed to rain the day he arrived, but clouds were nowhere in sight, and the sun still shone upon the land and washed the sea in deep turquoise. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He took in a great breath through his nose and the salt in the air brought a smile to his face.

He found work as a shipbuilder, working long hours in the sun all day, every day. The pay was poor, but at least it came in. Until it did not. The owner of the foundry made a few poor business decisions and lost everything but his house and the clothes on his back. Now the young man (practically still a boy) from the inland village was in trouble.

Out of work, unable to pay room and board or travel home, he scoured the city for opportunity. A few errands for people with slightly more money and less time on their hands brought in a few coins, but barely enough to rent a room for a week. The time of the month when he would send whatever remained of his pay after food and lodging expenses was fast approaching, and his family would be worried when the money did not come. They had no great need of it, but it was a sign that their son still lived, and the sacrifices they had made so he could see the sea yet paid off. He would rather farm and shepherd for the rest of his life than disappoint them.

Desperate for coin, he heard of a man by the port who made "contracts" with people in need of money. Though the idea of obligation held no appeal, he had no choice if he wished to send coin home. He met the man with long, straight, mousy black hair and a hooked nose. People said he was Cilician, but he spoke Greek like a native. Heracleo, he was called--certainly Greek, then. Heracleo told him he would transport him to Italia, likely to Rome or one of her sisters, and he would be set to task from there.

"Of course," Heracleo told him when he asked, "you can still send money to your family from there! You have my word!" Agreement was made. Heracleo handed him a bag of coin, to "taste Heracleo's generosity", and told him to return the next morning at sunrise.

Things were finally turning around. He immediately arranged to send most of the sum to his family, then treated himself to a drink and a decent meal with friends with the remainder. It was the best night he had in many weeks, and though he knew not what awaited him in Italia, he was content.

He arrived at the port at the appointed hour and location with many other people, a fair mix of genders and mostly Numidians, but a few Carthaginians, Egyptians, Judaeans, Syrians, and Sardinians as well. One-by-one they waited in line at the port office to "receive their travel itinerary", as one of Heracleo's men told him. When it was his turn to pass through the door, Heracleo smiled warmly and shook his hand.

The hand he outstretched to return the gesture was cuffed, and then its partner. Another of Heracleo's men pushed him into a line with all the people who had come before him, chained together and afraid. They spoke in hushed whispers, oblivious to what was happening.

But he knew; his father had warned him that the city is full of people who trick and lie and steal for a living, people who would sell their own kin into bodage just to weight their palms with a little coin. He had fallen for it, despite assurances to his father that he would not.

He did not chatter or whimper. He knew what was happening and there was nothing he could do about it.

A tear slipped his eye as he thought of his parents, of his mother and grandmother, his father and uncles, of how their hearts would clench with worry without sign of his wellbeing, until they broke with grief. Would that he could embrace his mother again, just one last time. Would that he could weep on his father's shoulder and tell him he was sorry, beg for forgiveness.

His mind swam with everything he could have done differently as they boarded ship and took to sail, and once again, he could see the sea.


	2. Fulco

Mist sat heavily upon the bog as the sun struggled valiantly to pull itself out of the grasp of night. The Varcangotrax war party stalked through the soupy earth in perfect unison, all their feet falling down into the same tracks to hide their numbers and make movement easier. The stronger of the party stood at the front, forging the path through the soggy black soil, while the weaker ones followed their tracks.

The war chief at the front of the line raised a fist to call pause, and everyone held a breath and craned ears to listen for the enemy force. At first there was only the chirping of frogs and insects, rising with the sun. The peace was broken by a soaring arrow, landing near the chief's left knee in the bog.

"Shields!" the war chief cried as a storm of arrows rained down from the morning sky. Shields were raised and the sound of hundreds of arrows hitting bronze and wood hammered down upon the ducking warriors. "Forward!"

They crawled out from the bog as quickly as they could, shields held overhead to protect against arrows, stones, and other projectiles. But the mud of the bog slowed their movements, and the enemy tribe of Gaetorix came rushing down the hill before most of them had even reached solid ground.

Fulco, one of the chief's reinforcements, had just pulled himself up onto dry land, and held his shield in front of him as he reached back to help the next warrior in line.

"Look out!" the woman behind him screamed as a hand axe came whistling across the battlefield. He lifted his shield just in time, or else his skull would have been split in two. He tore the axe from his shield and hurled it back at the enemy, landing it square in the forehead of an older man with a javelin.

Invigorated by his first kill of the day, Fulco charged forward with a war cry. It appeared it could be one of his last; for while many of their number were free of the muck and ready to meet the enemy charge, the majority of their people were still wading through the bog, frantically trying to scale the bank and climb free of the wet, greedy earth. They would be slaughtered by the overwhelming size of the Gaetorix's mobile forces, and those who remained stuck in the bog would be pelted with arrows and projectiles until they fell where they stood.

If they separated to surround the enemy, the warriors climbing out of the bog would be totally unprotected and easily struck down. If they stayed to guard their brethren as they escaped the muck, the enemy would simply meet them at the foot of the bog and trap them there. They only had one other option.

"Now!" the war chief called. One of his supports blew the carnyx, and the earth on both sides of them began to rumble. Warriors riding single mounts, as well as pulled by two-horse chariots, screamed out from the brush around the bog. They fired arrows, slung stones, and hurled spears, mowing down the front of the enemy charge. The Gaetorix paused their advance but it was too late; surrounded on all sides except the one from which they came, the enemy turned to gaze in that direction as though looking for something. Panic quickly ravaged their forces. As they tried to escape, the cavalry closed in with the infantry hot on their trail.

The bloodbath was short and intense. The cavalry used swords, spears, and javelins to herd the remainder of the forces and take down any who tried to bolt, while the infantry stormed in through gaps between the horses and cut down the enemy with ease by sword and spear. The battle was over in minutes, and with the destruction of the Gaetorix war party complete, their forces let out a great cry of victory.

"I could hear you trudging through the mud from across the valley, you shit-fucking cock-suck foreigner," his wife called to him from the cavalry. She steered her mare--red of coat just like his wife's own curls and braids--toward Fulco and slid down from the saddle. Her horse went off with the others to graze in the grasses not soaked with blood.

"As I heard your fucking mouth bleating from back in the village, you raucous mad cunt," he replied. She grabbed his chin as they drew close and pulled him in for a hard, toothy, breath-stealing kiss, then shoved him back.

This coming summer would be their ninth as husband and wife, and the tenth since they met. He had first noticed her by her eyes: the left one a dark blue like the sea in deep winter, the right a vivid green like the summer grasses. Their tribes had recently allied against enemies to the north and south, and they were all gathered for a feast by the river. 

_"Have you something to say, you fucking foreigner?"_ she had asked him when she caught him staring. His tribe were sometimes referred to as foreigners by the tribes of the far west, as some of their ancestors were Cimbrians from across the eastern sea (hence his own Germanic name).

 _"How do I make you my wife?"_ The words left his mouth before he thought them through, but he felt no need to take them back.

Everyone roared with laughter and her demeanor changed. _"You could start by asking my name."_

_"Alright, what name go you by?"_

_"You'll have to earn the right to know,"_ she said before lunging at him. He caught her by the wrists and they fought viciously for nearly an hour, eventually coming to a draw. When both their limbs quaked from exhaustion and sweat dripped off them like rain from the sky, they pulled apart and clapped each other's arms.

 _"Ernine,"_ she told him as they pulled apart, _"I believe I've earned yours in turn."_

_"Fulco."_

_"Fuck it all, my betrothed is even named a foreigner!"_

They went hunting together often, and married the following summer. Their home was a stone dugout between their tribes' winter hunting lands, built many seasons past by Ernine's favorite uncle. Exhausted from the trek and the battle, Fulco was eager to return there. After the fallen enemies had been looted and heads taken, they would fall back to their summer lands, from where it was but a short walk to their home.

"Quite a victory..." Ernine remarked as she surveyed the carnage. Her pouty lips striped with woad were turned down in a contemplative frown.

"The greatest in many months. Finally the cowards pulled cock from ass and charged like warriors."

Ernine nodded but did not seem convinced. "It was but early autumn when they retreated to their winter lands," she remarked as they walked the battlefield, looking over the corpses for any special loot and anyone they remembered killing, "Even when spring came early, they remained there. Now suddenly they make incursions into our lands and seek to provoke us?"

"Spineless fools ran away with tails between legs like the frightened dogs they are," Fulco reasoned.

"I do not like this."

"They'll put up a better fight next time."

"Such is my fear," said Ernine as she found a fallen warrior whose life she had taken, and hacked at his neck with the hand axe she kept on her belt until his head was removed, "They are planning something." She strung the head up on the edge of her saddle, knotting the long hair to bind it. "Our scouts noted boats coming from the sea a few seasons past, yet we have seen nothing of any newcomers. They must be allying with the Gaetorix."

"Foreigners fleeing wars in the lands across the eastern sea have been coming with greater frequency, but they appear harmless. The Gaetorix are probably making them slaves."

"But usually some make it past them." She stood with her hands on her hips and looked off toward the distance in deep thought.

"What is your concern?"

"Invaders from the lands across the eastern sea."

"Gauls again?"

"No, the Gauls do not behave so. They hit the sand of our shores and run screaming right into our swords like startled goats. Someone else is coming. They have been watching us, learning our tactics, preparing for battle."

"The chieftain has expressed no such concern."

"The chieftain is a stupid old man who would serve our tribes better as dog meat than war chief. We should fall back to the summer camp and dispatch scouts. Now."

Though Fulco was not overly concerned, he trusted his wife's logic and instincts. He was about to call to his kin to retreat when the earth once again began to tremble.

"Invaders!" one of the lesser warriors cried from the crest of the hill. The word was barely from his lips before a polished blade sundered his middle. 

Ernine and Fulco drew their weapons and rushed toward the hilltop, but it was overrun with warriors before they could reach it. The strangers wore ugly, square-shaped plates of armor on their chests and shoulders, and knee-length red capes upon their backs. They mostly wielded short swords and long rectangular shields painted red with gold adornments.

"Fall back!" the chieftain cried. A spear pierced his skull as he turned to run.

Ernine whistled for her mare, but the horses were gone. Whether they ran away in the commotion or were cut down was unclear, all Fulco knew was they needed to run. These invaders were immense in number, heavily armed and armored, and moved in perfect synchrony. Fulco and Ernine's tribes were not prepared to face such a force, not after the losses of warriors and energy they took during the battle with the Gaetorix.

They took off running, only to nearly stumble into the bog, as many of their tribesmen had. Ernine gripped her husband's hand and yanked him off to the left with her, where the strange marauders were lighter in numbers. Shields on their backs, they ran like they had never run before as their tribesmen fell to arrows and spears all around them.

"If we can make it to the forest, we should be safe," Ernine panted. They entered the cover of the trees, slowing a little to save energy but continuing to run. Up the next hill and a little ways down the river, the camp sat waiting for them. Surely they would be safe there.

Then the world rocked to a standstill; a spear had just missed Ernine's shield, the tip tearing at the side of her neck.

"NO!" Fulco cried as he caught her in his arms. He cradled her to his chest and tried to stop the bleeding, but it seeped between the cracks in his fingers and under his hand.

"Leave me," Ernine begged him, words muted by the blood bubbling out of her neck.

"No! We can make-" He could not lie to her. Blood gushed from her wound like the springtime river pulsing with the melt of winter's snow--nothing could be done for her, even under ideal conditions.

"Live," she said as she placed a strong, calloused hand on his cheek, "The Morrigan will bring you to me when it is time. Live to fight. For me."

"I will," he choked out. His tears dripped from his face onto hers, mingling with the dirt and woad. She pulled his head down to crown hers, smiling as she looked in his eyes and took her last breath.

It was as if the world ended. All sound ceased. The sun fell away. The breeze dissipated. The brush and trees withered and turned to dust. The ground cracked and crumbled, opening into an empty abyss and swallowing him up. All that existed was the pain in his chest, the tears on his cheeks, and his wife's body in his arms.

"Fulco!" one of his cousins called, "We must keep going!" He and a few of their tribesmen ran past Fulco, only to be cut off by the invaders' cavalry. Fulco placed one last gentle kiss on Ernine's forehead and softly laid her behind a massive oak tree, like the ones that lined their home. She appeared to be sleeping, as he had seen her so many times when they would go out hunting together and stop to rest.

He released her hand and unsheathed his sword, screaming at the invaders as they yelled in a strange language. He lunged at one of the foot soldiers, piercing his gut. He could feel again; he could feel his blade slicing through meat. He felt the ache of his throat as he screamed and screamed, lunging, swinging his sword, punching, kicking, biting, scratching, drawing as much blood from as many of the invaders as he could before they pinned him down and placed him in chains.

Fulco and his tribesmen were dragged from the forest as he cast one last look at Ernine, asleep at the foot of the great oak tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carnyx: huge Celtic battle horn used to intimidate enemies and for various other purposes. Here it was used to signal the cavalry that was hiding in wait.
> 
> Woad: a bright blue paint or dye used by Celt warriors when going to battle.
> 
> The Morrigan: a goddess of death, war, fate, and revenge, very important to Celtic (and later Irish) religion and mythology. Celtic warriors believed she would appear in the form of a raven and carry the spirits of warriors fallen in battle to the afterlife.
> 
> Ernine: Celtic woman's name meaning "iron" (as I understand it, at least).
> 
> The Varcangotrax and Gaetorix are totally made up. If there happens to be a real word or name similar to them in Celtic, the likeness is entirely coincidental.
> 
> I pictured Fulco being from Britannia, however, Rome is not recorded (as far as I could see, though I didn't spend a ton of time on research on this specific point) as having had contact with Britannia until Caesar's reconnaissance mission there in the mid-50s BC, which would have been 30-40 years after this story takes place. So either the Roman forces here were just an expeditionary team that never made it back from Britannia to Rome to report their findings, or Fulco and his people are in northern or northwestern mainland (modern day) Europe.


	3. Litaviccus - The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has been tricked into slavery, on his way to a strange land, and is totally alone. Only fate knows if he will make something of it all.

It took just over nine days to reach Italia. Nine days spent in the hold of Heracleo's ship.

He and his cohorts were fed once a day, when they rotated from the hold to the deck for a little fresh air. When they went up, a different set of prisoners would go back down. These ones were more Phoenician than anything else, though they did have a few people of different lands among them.

The time on deck was a mixed blessing: on the one hand he got fresh air, food, and to look at the sea; on the other, he was still a prisoner, Heracleo's men were obnoxious, and the sea mocked him for his mad dreams of adventure and personal fulfillment.

He spoke to almost no one, except for one of Heracleo's men. The first time they had come to stop, he asked the man where they were. They had only traveled half a day, they could not have reached Italia.

"Oea," the man told him, "to pick up more passengers."

"You mean prisoners," he growled.

The man shrugged. "The two are not so far apart," he stuck out his hand, "I am Castus." 

He looked down at the hand, memory of Heracleo's trick from that morning still an open wound. "Why are you with these people?" he asked Castus.

Cactus withdrew his hand and shrugged, "Coin, adventure, spoils, the good things in life." Castus appeared to be Numidian, and had a thin but sculpted face, a trim but well-built form, a shaved head covered by protective cloth to keep off the sun, pierced ears, bright eyes, and a glowing smile that was difficult not to return.

"You have led a different life than I."

"Of that I have little doubt," Castus chuckled, "What name do you carry?"

He did not, not anymore. He dropped his old name and his old life when he moved to shake Heracleo's hand, never to truly be parted from it again. His family would always know his name. They alone would hold it, a relic of a man gone from this world but not completely forgotten.

"Does it matter?"

"...Usually, yes," Castus laughed once more, though absent mirth, almost sympathetically.

They set sail once more with new "passengers" and pressed forward another day and a half, until they docked in Lepcis Magna. They picked up more passengers and then broke for open sea. Five and a half days they traveled, before stopping at the city of Melita on the small island of Malta. They restocked supplies and picked up more "passengers", and many of Heracleo's men went ashore for a few hours, returning drunk. Castus had been among them, but although he smelled of drink, he was not overtaken with it.

He spoke to Castus throughout the voyage to Melita, and then the day-and-a-half journey from Melita to Syracusae on the shores of Sicilia, another day to Messana of Sicilia, two more days to the Roman port of Palinuri Promontorium in Italia, and then one more day to their final destination: Neapolis, a Roman city.

Along the way, he learned that Castus was new to Heracleo's gang of pirates. Castus had been roaming in search of adventure when he happened upon Heracleo while in Cilicia, Heracleo's port of call and a haven for pirates. Heracleo had been so taken with Castus's charm and wit that he offered him a job aboard his ship, which Castus accepted. At first the crew did not care for Heracleo’s recruit, but they quickly warmed up to him. How could they not? The man exuded charisma like a normal man did sweat.

He enjoyed talking with Castus and appreciated his humor. He had even laughed and smiled a few times at Castus's jokes. Life on the ship was miserable, with the cramped quarters and the poor eating and the churning sea and the bondage, but he would miss Castus's company. 

"Lift heart: I think the gods are far from done with you, "Castus told him as he was unloaded with the prisoners,

"Would that we had met under different circumstances. I pray you find a situation more deserving of your company than Heracleo and his hounds."

Castus laughed, "Only the gods can divine the future." The pirate looked toward the exit ramp, where the 'passengers' were beginning to be unloaded. "Fare thee well, Litaviccus. May we meet again one day."

"Litaviccus? That is not my name."

"It is now," Castus said softly, the knowing pity in his voice adding unspoken sympathy to the words, "It is the name you were assigned on the 'passenger' manifest."

He considered Castus's words for a moment. Litaviccus: it was as good a choice as any, since his true name was lost to him back in Numidia now.

They nodded in parting and Litaviccus followed his fellow prisoners off the ship.

They travelled a walkway that ran along the sea wall, then into a boathouse and up a short flight of stairs. Litaviccus had been chained to a group of all men back in Sabratha, and now all six of them stood with their backs to the sea. A hideous little man, skin baked to leather by the sun, long gray beard matted from the wind, turban to cover his balding head, and knobby fingers choked with rings, swung his arms to passerby and visitors, boasting of “highest quality fighting men from every corner of the republic."

Many men looked as they walked past, but one older man stayed the longest. He was trailed by a younger man, possibly his son, and they both wore fine robes with bright colors and bold patterns. The older man walked past every one of them, studying them from head to toe.

”This one shows promise, does he not?” said the younger man. He, like everyone else in the city, spoke Latin. He had short dusty gray-brown hair, pale blue eyes, and light skin.

”And why would you say that?” said the older man absently. The younger man spoke of one of the men at the front of the line, several men to the right.

The younger man shrugged. “Taut of figure, lean of body, no sign of wound, healthy complexion, smooth of skin, strong musculature...”

The older man rolled his eyes and sighed, pivoting on his heel to return to where the younger man stood. “Absence of scar is no indication of wound; the way he shifts his weight, however, is. See how he rocks often upon right leg, to lift burden on its partner: this man has had a broken bone in the past, possibly more than one, and never fully healed. He would crumble within days."

The older man stayed close to the younger one as if moving back to his previous spot would not be worth the effort. Until his eyes landed on one who he had not noticed before: Litaviccus. His brows furrowed softly, dark eyes seeming to narrow in concentration. "This man, however..." the older man came to a stop near him, "There is a fire in this man. What is it you seek, my friend? I see the desire in your eyes, what is the object of such stirring?"

Litaviccus had no reason to tell him. Perhaps he should have spat in the older man's face in reply, keeping his desires close to his heart and hidden from the wicked world in which he lived. But he would surely die, then. As horrible as his current lot was, he was not ready to die. He had to make his family proud. He had to see his parents one last time. He had to make sure they knew he tried to honor their sacrifices. He could not do that as a nameless corpse buried in Italia.

"My family."

"Wife and children?"

"Mother and father. Brothers and sisters. Grandmother. Aunts and uncles. Cousins."

"And what is it you wish for them?"

He swallowed a lump in his throat and said, "To make them proud. To show them their sacrifices were not made in vain."

The older man seemed to notice his surge of emotions, for his gaze softened. "What sacrifices are those?"

"They gave me blessing to leave home, taking on my duties on our land so that I could see the sea. They let me leave, knowing their lives would be more difficult and they may never see me again. I tried to send them coin, but I was misled by a pirate claiming to be a benefactor, and now I am a slave, far from home and hope of ever laying eyes upon family again in this life."

There was a somberness to the older man's eyes, a sad smile upon his thin lips and he spoke, "A man is never absent hope if he is willing to fight for what he loves. What would you do to see your family again? Are you willing to fight?"

"I would do anything."

"Then fight for me," said the older man, "Train in the gladiatorial arts at my ludus, earn the mark of the brotherhood of gladiators, win honor in the arena, earn coin to send to your family, purchase your freedom, and see yourself back to their arms."

"Is...is such a thing possible?"

"It is. If you believe you are willing and able, your journey home can begin right now."

"I am," Litaviccus nearly wept, "I am willing and I am able."

"Excellent," the older man smiled, "You are called..." the old man squinted to read the name scribbled on the wax placard hung around his neck, "Litaviccus?"

"Yes, sir."

The older man smiled and turned to the ugly little slaver, "This man, Litaviccus: I will make this man a titan."


	4. Lydon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this chapter in late November and it is now March 1st...so this one chapter took me more than three months... I love Lydon and I tried to put a lot of love into this chapter, but I got so overwhelmed with information (and my other fics and responsibilities) that I kind of got lost in it. It's not perfect, I'm actually not happy with it, but I need to just be done with it. I will try to make edits later on as needed.
> 
> Hispania was the Roman name for the Iberian peninsula, also called Iberia (modern-day Spain and Portugal). For the purposes of this fic, Hispania=Iberia=Iberian Peninsula.
> 
> Turdetani and Lusitani are used interchangeably with Turdetanian and Lusitanian, respectively. For perspective, the Turdetani were more from southern Spain, while the Lusitani were primarily in modern Portugal, where pieces of that heritage are still prominent.
> 
> This isn't specified anywhere in canon, but I have Lydon as being of Turdetanian heritage because that's listed as a possibility on his Wikia. However, I also have him as being of Lusitanian heritage, because that would give him a direct tie to the Sertorian War (the one Glaber and Marcus spoke of in the beginning of "Vengeance" episode 1, which begins around the same time as "Gods of the Arena") and add some nuance to his hatred of Romans and to how he became enslaved.
> 
> Since Lydon appears in GoTA, we know that he was enslaved before then. Though I don't have the exact dates as to when GoTA and B&S begin, I'm estimating that B&S was around 75 BC and GoTA was around 80 BC. 80 BC is when the Sertorian War began, and there was probably a surge in Hispanian people enslaved by the Romans, especially warriors who could be made into gladiators. So I'm once again estimating that Lydon was at the ludus less than half a year before GoTA began.

His mother said he was too young for war. Ever since first stubble began to form on chin, Lydon had begged his parents to let him join his people's efforts against the Romans. But Lydon's mother had seen what war with Rome meant for Lusitania, for those left behind after the warriors were dead or captured: slaughter, pain, and bondage. She tried to keep her husband and all her children from plotting against Rome, but resentment was too great--it flowed through their veins and filled their lungs and pumped in their hearts. Generations of pain, of a vacancy in the heart where there should have been a feeling of home, of belonging, of roots, of history had made them restless; generations of displacement, of inherited memories of a home ripped from grasp had made them bitter; and generations of persistent Roman violence, of pillage, torture, war, slavery, and massacre kept all of it fresh in the mind, like a gaping wound forever chafed and raw. And all wounds, when not tended properly, will eventually fester. 

"Lydon, don't use so much salt," said Lydon's father the night he returned from Tingis, "That's our last pallet and I know not when we will get more."

"Papa!" Lydon exclaimed with a grin. He set down the meat and met his father at the shed door with a tight embrace. His father patted his shoulders in return and smiled weakly. "We did not know when you would return, we were getting worried!"

"You speared yourself a fine buck, my boy," said his father proudly as he pointed at the carcass.

"Er... Lapon brought it..." Lydon said sheepishly. He dreaded the inevitable disappointment on his father's face, but he could not lie to him. His older brother Lapon had brought the buck over earlier that morning so that Lydon, their mother, and younger sisters Lepsia and Lorga would have food for the coming week. Lydon was, admittedly, terrible at hunting, and his mother preferred to keep him around the home anyway.

His father appeared to be on the cusp of an endeared reproach, but his mother interrupted him.

"A merchant comes from Conímbriga two days hence," said Lydon's mother as she gave her husband a peck on the cheek. She pushed past him to enter the shed with a basket of newly-spun yarn for the loom. "Perhaps we could trade him yarn for more salt."

Salt was just one of the necessities of life from which the Romans seemed to derive perverse joy in depriving the Lusitani. Used to preserve meat and other foodstuffs, salt was absolutely vital to rural households like that of Lydon's family, a fact which the Romans used starve the tribes of Iberia into submission when they could.

But while the Lusitani certainly had more than their fair share of suffering under the Romans, they were far from the only ones; all of "Hispania" had been violently subjugated by Rome at least once across history: Six generations back, Lydon's family had lived comfortable lives as merchants, poets, historians, and lawmakers in their urban home in coastal Turdetania. Then Cato came, capturing villages, massacring their inhabitants or degrading them into suicide, slaughtering warriors on field of battle, razing cities, eradicating tribes, looting the land and the people, and all the while bragging about it to feed his political career back in Rome. Now when Roman soldiers were not slaughtering them, Roman politicians were robbing them blind through taxes and policy changes and bureaucratic nonsense designed to keep Iberia vulnerable. For six generations, Lydon's family had struggled to survive in the Lusitanian wilderness, barely harvesting enough from the land through farming, foraging, and hunting to get by. Were it not for the traveling merchants who came from the regional capital Conímbriga, their home would not even be inhabitable during the cold months.

"Yes..." Paelys chose his next words carefully, wary of his wife's thinning patience with him, "We will replenish our stock, and that of Lapon. We should not see his young family deprived."

Lapon had married his childhood sweetheart Daina two summers past, and they had a little boy who was nearly six months old now. He had come by nearly every day while his father was in Tingis, bringing eggs from Daina's chickens, game captured in the many traps around his home, salt, and other necessities and sundries. Sometimes he would stay and help Lydon with chores, like when the fields had to be plowed and the job was too much for Lydon to tackle alone.

"But our family can be denied?" said Felma tersely.

"Felma-"

"Lydon, inside. Now. Your father and I are for _words_."

Both men knew what that meant. Lydon slipped past Paelys and jogged the few yards from the shed to the house.

The door to the stone cottage was wide open to let out what smoke didn't make it through the chimney, as well as to bring in fresh air. When Lydon passed through, Lepsia was checking the ox bones--also from Lapon--boiling in the massive cauldron in the hearth.

"Is Papa back?" she asked.

"He's in the shed...Mama wanted _words_..."

Lepsia grimaced out of pity for their father. "She has broken no words on him since his departure for Tingis... I've not seen her so angry before."

"She blames him for our hard times," said Lydon as he sat down on a bench at the kitchen table. Lorga, barely older than a toddler, climbed up into his lap.

They were silent for nearly a minute, the only sound being the bones bubbling and turning to broth in the pot, before Lepsia broke the silence to whisper, "Do you think we are for war?"

"Uncertain. Is that what Papa went to Tingis for?"

"Elmira down the road said that her uncle went to Tingis to seek out Sertorius. They want him to lead us in battle against the Romans."

Quintus Sertorius had been the Roman "propraetor" (whatever that was) of Iberia for a time, following his exile from Italia due to some kind of Roman political posturing. He governed for a year, until his political enemies in Rome sent reinforcements to Iberia and seized power for themselves. Completely ostracized by Rome and no remaining political allies to aid him, Sertorius and his most loyal followers--the Sertorians--fled south across the sea.

Sertorius was a mild leader who respected Iberians, went to great pains to understand them and learn about their cultures, integrated them and their ways into Hispanian society, executed his own soldiers if they unduly harmed the Iberians, and ensured his soldiers kept the peace with honor. In such a short time, he had earned Iberians' respect--and most notably, the elusive trust of the Lusitanians. His successors, of course, were just as bigoted and cruel as Cato and the like.

But Sertorius showed the Iberians that it was possible, at least for a time, to coexist with Rome if men like Sertorius could facilitate it. Anything was better than the current propraetor Fufidius and his gangs of rapists and thieves he called soldiers. When talk of war with Rome emerged, as it always did eventually, a group of Lusitani representatives took it upon themselves to seek out the exiled Sertorius...though to what end, most people could only conjecture.

"Maybe it is that of which they now speak..." Lydon pondered aloud.

They exchanged questioning glances and Lepsia covered the pot before they tiptoed out to the shed. They could easily hear their mother and they crouched around the corner from the shed door.

"-selfish asses! The sting of Roman lash wounds us all, yet it is only you men who clamor for war! You give no thought to what happens to us when you don't come back from battle, or if the Romans attack before you return home! You talk of dignity and pride and honor while you leave your wife and children to starve!"

"Lydon was here to care for and protect you, even Lapon was providing for you."

"Lydon is yet a boy, Paelys! Roman sword would have pierced his chest as easily as it would mine and the girls'!"

The words pierced Lydon's chest with a sword's vigor; he was not a small or weak man, but he was young and mild-mannered and smaller than many of the tribe's great warriors like his father. Men and women like Paelys and his comrades were the standard against which all people of their tribe compared themselves, as well as each other. Lydon was often the target of teasing by his peers and elders for not measuring up to his father and brother's statures. And though it was usually light-hearted enough, it always stung because beneath it was a deeper humiliation: Lydon had never gone to war. He had seen battle, certainly, and shed enemy blood in skirmishes with Roman patrols and rival tribes. Such was normal for people of the Iberian tribes even before Rome arrived. These instances were part of normal life in Lusitania, and most of Iberia. But a warrior only made his name upon true field of battle, a place to which Lydon had not had the privilege of being summoned by the tribe's leaders.

It was not that he lacked the skill: Paelys had taught his sons how to fight beginning in early childhood, and both of his sons were skilled warriors. Lapon was the only one of the two who had seen a true war, but it was Lydon who had proven himself the expert swordsman. What the younger brother lacked in true war experience, he made up for in tenacity, focus, and raw talent, honed to a level of skill even his father envied. Every morning before sunrise, during the heat of the day when chores were impossible, and every night after sunset, he practiced with any weapon he could get his hands on, on the farmstead or out in the forest. But due to his age, relatively slight frame, and soft manner, he had not been summoned to war when many of his peers had been. He had not shed blood on field of battle, had not claimed the life of a single enemy of his people or committed a single act of valor in open warfare. Though in years he was more or less a man, in the eyes of his people, he was still a boy.

"He is a man and needs to be treated as such," Paelys tried to affirm, "You weaken him with your fawning."

" _You_ weaken him by not being here to be a father to him, always running around scheming and skirmishing against the Romans! How do you expect a boy to become a man when he has only me and the girls for company?"

"What would you have us do? Bow and kiss Roman sandals and wait for them to politely take leave?"

"I would have you do whatever it takes to provide for our family!"

"And what do you think I'm doing now?"

"Providing for your ego!" Felma sighed, "Paelys, you and the children are my only concern. I would not see you or them suffer needlessly through another pointless war. They need their father, Paelys, and I my husband."

"I do this for you, Felma, and for them," said Paelys softly, "Sertorius agrees to lead our forces against Rome. He will arrive in the coming days, and once we can restore him back to his rightful place, we will know peace."

"Until the Romans come back..." Felma paused a moment as though listening for something, then yelled, "Lydon, Lepsia, back in the house!"

The brother and sister (sisters, since Lorga was clinging to Lydon's back), scurried back to the cottage, assuming their previous stations as though they had never left.

They made smalltalk for a time, but eventually Lydon's gaze drifted to the huge oaken chest underneath the table.

"Think not of that!" Lepsia hissed, "Mama said she would skin you if you took Lydianus's falcata out without permission again!"

The falcata was a traditional weapon developed by the Iberians before the Romans invaded. It was an amalgamation of several unique features not seen anywhere else in the world: specially-tempered Iberian steel to form an exceptionally strong blade; a concave shape, with a downward-sloping curve on the top edge and a jagged curve on the bottom edge; a bone or bronzed-wood, semi-closed pommel fitted to the user's grip; and a weight that was heavy enough to hack and slash, but light enough to be sleek and maneuverable. Paired with a caetra, the large traditional Iberian circular shield with bright painting on its front, it could be used for careful stabbing, as well. Locals, traders, travelers, and even conquerors were all impressed with the weapon's utility, so much so that even the great Hannibal equipped his soldiers with them.

One of the earliest of these soldiers was Lydon's ancestor and namesake, Lydianus. Like Lydianus, many of Hannibal's first recruits were Iberians loyal to Carthage, as Lydon's ancestors were. Turdetania had close contact with Carthage, and many Turdetani families had Carthaginian heritage. After Lydianus returned home, the falcata was one of the only things with which he and his family managed to flee Cato's death squads for Lusitania. His family continued to care for it after his death, and even more than a hundred years later, the blade was still pristine. Lydon loved to gaze upon the sword, to study the nicks in the edge, the wearing on the pommel, the shiny surface of the blade itself. His mother, however, hated the way her husband's family revered the relic of a futile war, and forbade Lydon from handling it. But when war loomed on the horizon, he often found himself disobeying his mother to simply gaze upon it, to see the evidence of his family's warrior history and feel the warrior's blood thrum in his veins. He was tempted to break his mother's rule again, but Felma and Paelys returned to prepare evening meal before he could make the attempt.

When evening meal was finished and cleaned up, and the late-afternoon sun had set, Lydon approached Paelys as they finished the last chore of the day.

"Papa, can we train tonight?" he asked as they herded the goats back into their corral for the night. It was late autumn, and his parents liked to keep the livestock in the pen closest to the house, so they could get some residual heat from the hearth.

Even in the weak afterglow of the sun, Lydon could see his father beaming with pride. "It is almost dark," his father replied.

"The Romans favor the dark," Lydon reminded him, "like worms."

Paelys chuckled warmly and kissed the top of his son's head. "Find our swords and shields, my son, and we shall train."

Lydon grinned and sprinted the short distance back to the house, where his father's falcata and caetra rested on a hook near the loft--high enough that Lorga could not reach them but close enough to be retrieved if caught off-guard in the dead of night.

"And where do you think you go?" Felma demanded. Lydon ground to a halt as he retrieved his own falcata and shield from the high shelf by the front door.

"He wishes to train," Paelys intervened from the back door, "And...I would be a father to my son."

Felma considered this, then nodded her blessing. As she watched them make toward the woods, Paelys's frame for once relaxed and Lydon practically giddy as a pup, she managed a soft smile.

"Keep your wrist straight- Yes, just like that," Paelys instructed as Lydon charged at him, swinging his falcata with remarkable accuracy and power for one of his age. Lydon had mastered the falcata even before he was tall enough to reach Paelys's waist. A few summers past, with the help of his paternal grandmother, he rendered his own: a meticulously-polished, flawlessly-forged steel blade attached to a bone pommel carved in the shape of a horse's head. They had carried an oil lamp with them tonight, and as Lydon swung the curved blade, it caught the lamp's light like a shooting star.

"Has anyone-" Lydon grunted as he parried a direct strike from his father, "-ever wielded two at once?"

"Unlikely," Paelys replied as he had to fall to the ground and roll out of the way when Lydon lunged at him off a tree, "They are offensive weapons only. As you can see..." Paelys swung his longsword in a powerful downward slash. Lydon raised the falcata to block the blow, but was too strong and his sword too heavy for the falcata to fully absorb. He buckled beneath the strike, ducking to avoid being struck with his own blade as he lost control of it.

"Hold!" Lydon.

"Take pause, my son, this is only a drill; I will not let any harm come to you, but you must learn to master your weaknesses."

"Papa, listen," Lydon whispered. He dropped the rest of the distance to the ground and rested his ear upon it: in the shortening distance, he could hear and feel the rumble of horses' hooves. "Horses. Three to five."

Paelys resumed his combat stance and knelt behind a tree, pulling Lydon alongside him. Now the horses could be heard easily, drawing ever closer as father and son concealed themselves, either for protection or for ambush. But it was not an enemy who drew near.

"Daina!" Lydon cried out in relief and surprise.

Lapon's wife Daina clutched the midsection of Ortan, one of her brothers, as they drew nearer on horseback. They were accompanied by their brother Talius and sister Alia, all three of whom lived with their parents near Daina and Lapon's land.

"Daina, what has happened?" Paelys demanded. Even in the faint light of the straining moon, tears on Daina's cheeks and blood on her clothes could be seen.

"There is no time," said Talius, "We must see to your family!"

Lydon took Alia's outstretched hand and climbed atop the horse, while Paelys rode behind Talius, and the party took off down the trail, racing toward Lydon's family's farmstead.

"Tyril..." Daina sobbed her baby's name, barely holding on to the horse as Paelys took over the reins, "Lapon..."

"What about them? What has happened?!" Paelys pressed.

But Lydon knew. The Romans had ravaged their people too many times before for him not to recognize their work. His chest began to burn, his throat constricted, and his eyes filled with tears.

"We made to their home when we saw Romans approach," said Talius, "They...pressed Lapon about Quintus Sertorius's whereabouts..."

"It makes no sense!" Daina wept, "Lapon does not know the man, he is not for politics!"

"Where is he?" Paelys choked out. "Where is my son?!"

"Apologies, Paelys," said Ortan, "the Romans sought all the men of your family line...men and boys..."

"Not Tyril too..." Paelys tried to deny it, but it was a common Roman tactic: if a 'barbarian' man in Roman territory sows discord, all the men and boys (or sometimes the entirety) of his family are killed to stop the spread of rebellion, and send a message to the community. 

"Lying fucks," Talius spat, "They said the babe would be spared if we told them where the other men of Lapon's heritage dwelled, but..."

"It is a blessing to find you here," said Alia, "The gods show day's first sign of mercy-"

Ortan's horse slid to a stop and the others followed. "Fuck..." Ortan whispered.

They had left the forest behind and now caught sight of Lydon's family's home just around a bend: the yard dotted by just under a dozen men in red capes, and the house and shed consumed by flames. 

Alia patted Lydon's knee as he began to cry.

"No..." said Paelys.

"Apologies, Paelys," said Talius, "Apologies."

"We must go," said Alia.

"No," Paelys repeated more confidently, "Dismount and approach with caution. Have weapons drawn and follow my lead. The girls may yet live."

The party concealed their horses in a small gully and crouched to follow Paelys to the farmstead. They hid behind a range of boulders that acted as a property line, listening to the Roman soldiers speak in their ugly Latin tongue.

"Nothing," said one, "Just another Hispanian shithole. Not a fucking scrap of gold or silver."

"Fufidius said these lands were flooded with silver!" another protested.

"In the ground, you dumb fuck," yet another said, "And the silver mines are in the south, nowhere near here. Besides, we do not come out in dead of night for riches."

"Though it figures we get sent to the one dot on this latrine of a land with no fucking silver. The gods continue to shit upon us," complained another still.

"We must earn their favor by serving Rome, you impudent shits!" an authoritative voice yelled. Judging by the rim of dyed-red horse hair poking up over the fence, it was a centurion. "What of the occupants? Did you find the man and the boy?"

"No, sir, just the woman and two girls, all dead by her hand."

Tears blurred Lydon's vision beyond utility. The glow of the towering flames disappeared, and there was only a swirling blackness, clawing him inside and smothering him outside. He felt like he could be sick, but his muscles did not bother to contract.

"Fucking barbarians. Take note, men, these are the enemies of Rome: men who abandon their families to scheme against their rightful masters, and women so cowardly they would kill their own children and themselves so as not to serve the glory of Rome!"

Talius clutched Lydon before he could rush in to punish the Roman for his words. "You cannot win against them, we would all fall," he whispered in Lydon's ear.

"We must go, Paelys," Alia pressed.

Paelys said nothing, only nodded once and followed Ortan back toward the horses, tears silently streaming down his cheeks. 

Talius pulled Lydon along behind him, but Lydon dug his heels in and tried to pull out of Talius's grasp. They were almost far enough from the farm to go unnoticed, when Lydon heard one of the Romans chuckle, "Well would you look at this!"

The party stopped, holding their breath as if the Romans would lose sight of them if they simply did not make a sound. But they did not appear to have been discovered at that moment, for as Lydon slowly pivoted on his heel to look at the commotion, he saw the soldiers were distracted by the charred remains of a chest: the chest with Lydianus's falcata, which the centurion ripped from the hand of the soldier who found it.

"You see, men," said the centurion, "When we stay to task, the gods are pleased. They send us sign of their favor."

Paelys motioned for them all to slowly back away, so as to keep eyes on the Romans but grow the distance between them.

"What is it, sir?"

"A barbarian weapon, unique to the ones who dwell in these lands. Beautiful piece, is it not?"

"Yes, sir," said the lesser men in unison.

"It is said the iron is harvested and then left in the ground for three years, so as to degrade any impurities before being turned to steel. They are remarkably hardy weapons, despite the smaller size. We will face many of these in battle, if Propraetor Luscus's predictions of war are to be believed. Take note of the shape, men..." The Centurion held the blade at a slight angle and turned it, the light of the now-dying flames lighting up the flawless surface as though it was a mirror.

Suddenly the Romans went silent, all staring down at the blade as though mesmerized by it, as Lydon had been all his life. At first he thought that was all it was, but the subtle hand movements of the centurion and the attempts by his soldiers to covertly surround the party gave away the truth.

"They see us!" Lydon whispered hoarsely.

"Run for the horses," Paelys said calmly, "Carefu-"

"Seize them!" the centurion roared before he blew the horn he had hanging on his belt. Lydon hoped the horn was just to direct everyone to attack, but it was probably to summon nearby reinforcements.

The party met the Roman attackers head-on as the scarlet-clad beasts roared and lunged at them, madly swinging their weak little gladii like inexperienced children trying to chop down trees. It was a simple thing to dispatch the first two who approached, but six still remained, not counting their leader. It was after they had killed the fourth Roman that Ortan suffered a blow to the gut.

"I will tend him, the rest of you, cover us," said Talius. Lydon, Alia, and Paelys moved into the correct formation, parrying constant Roman strikes.

"Keep him moving back as much as you can. We will carry him if we have to," said Paelys.

They made it a respectable distance in this manner, felling another two or three more Romans before the centurion joined the fray. When they were almost to the horses, Daina, who had stayed behind, hurled a small hand axe in Ortan's horse's saddlebag and hit one of the Romans in the nose, sending him down screaming in pain and choked with blood.

"Secure him," Paelys instructed Talius about Ortan, "We will cover you."

Talius and Daina managed to get Ortan atop his horse, Daina mounting the same steed and taking the reins. As another Roman fell, Talius helped Alia back upon her horse, then mounted his own and called for Paelys or Lydon to join him.

"Fucking barbarians!" the centurion howled as the last legionary fell, "May the gods see you suffer for the lives you have stolen!"

Paelys and Lydon grabbed the large shields of two fallen Romans and surrounded the centurion, tiring him with many harmless strikes before Paelys knocked him to his knees. Lydon pulled Lydianus's falcata off the Roman's belt and plunged it straight through his mouth.

"Well done," said Alia. She stuck out her hand and Lydon joined her on horseback.

"How did they discover us?" Paelys asked as he mounted Talus's horse.

"They must have seen our reflection in the blade..." Lydon mused.

He looked down at Lydianus's falcata now bound to his belt, still enrapt by its gleaming edges. Yet it looked different now: in the past it had an almost supernatural glow, thrumming with the blood of all the Romans who met their end upon it. Now it looked so very paltry, like a decrepit relic instead of a treasured family heirloom. So fantastic a weapon it was, and yet it could not save their family.

Nor could it kill much game to eat, or herbs to harvest over the next few days. The forests through which the need for concealment forced them to travel had little in the way of food and water this time of year, and even less medicinal herbs that could have saved Ortan's life; he died on the fourth day of their travels. When the survivors finally found a place to rest, in the home of one of Paelys's friends, they were half-dead from exhaustion. Their host provided them with meat, water, cots and blankets, and most importantly, information.

"Word carries that the Romans are coming here for Sertorius," said Paelys's friend Lonus, "They believe he has returned from exile to draw up an army."

"Who is it that comes?" Paelys asked.

"A few notable generals and their consul, Cotta. Clearly they take this seriously."

"Fuck," Talius mused.

"What else have you heard?" Paelys pressed.

"...There have been crucifixions in your village...of the men the Romans believed may be aiding Sertorius's return. Not only in your village, though."

"What do you mean?"

"They came to many of the local towns, seeking men of note and any man who traveled recently. They do not know who is working with Sertorius, so they target leaders and recent travelers. They interrogate the men and older boys, then kill all the males of the family and enslave the women and girls."

Perhaps it was a terrible thing to think, but Lydon could not help but feel a sense of relief for his family; if slavery was what awaited his mother and sisters, as his mother surely predicted, then they were better off gone from this world. It did not make the weight of their absence any lighter.

"The tribes will not look past such transgressions this time," said Lonus warily, "The surviving war chiefs and councils are to meet in the forest in secret two days hence. When Sertorius arrives, we are for war."

"And we shall bathe in Roman blood!" Alia snarled.

Paelys looked to Lydon, who looked back at him in silence. Finally Paelys sighed, "Yes. We shall."

They stayed with Lonus for several days, until word reached them that the surviving chieftains had formed an alliance, however temporary it may have been. After the leaders agreed to assemble their forces and set up a basecamp, it was only another week or so before Sertorius arrived. He had hoped to enter Iberia clandestinely, but the Romans knew he was coming. They waited for him and attacked as he entered the river Guadalquivir, which the Romans called the Baetis, and a naval battle ensued. Sertorius and his forces won, and the consul Cotta's defeat was a grave humiliation to Rome.

"We are past recourse now," Talius mused when the news reached them.

"There is no recourse for what they have done," said Lydon.

"Lydon is right, this could only ever have led to war. One which we shall win," Alia affirmed.

"I only mean that they will not be so easily shaken now. In the past, affairs elsewhere have pulled their attention away from us, to our benefit. But after this, they will not stop until they destroy us."

"Or we destroy them," Alia quipped.

Talius nodded but broke no more words on the matter.

When the Sertorian forces assembled not too far from Lonus's village, they spent only a week in the camp before the time for battle arrived. It was enough time for everyone to receive their assignments: Lydon was in the heavy infantry of the Lusitani cohort, toward the back, with his father and Lonus just behind him and Alia at his side, and Talius was in the light infantry ahead several rows, in the frontline.

The week passed in a blur. When he was not drilling with his comrades, Lydon shadowed his father in strategic sessions. The battle plan was simple: the Sertorians were to secure the high ground, then the light infantry would engage the Romans upon the battlefield. When the Romans were tired from the fighting, the light infantry was to slowly lure them to the base of the hill with a feigned retreat. Then they would fall back behind the next wave as the heavy infantry charged down the hill, using caetras to knock the Romans down and hack or slash them as they passed. They would repeat this in waves until the Romans either retreated or all fell in battle.

On the day of the battle, they assembled in formation and awaited orders. Thousands of men (mostly men--the Sertorians were composed of many tribes and peoples, not all of whom permitted women in their ranks as the Lusitani did) howled and cheered, beating theirs swords against their shields or thumping their fists upon their chests in high spirits. Though Lydon could never hear Sertorius's words over the chaos, they rallied the men into near-frenzy. Either Sertorius's reputation as a poor speaker was ill-earned, or the men were frenzied to begin with. When the order was given for the first wave to march, all Lydon heard was the roar of the men near their leader. As though tethered like oxen to cart, the second wave began to run behind the first, but paused to 'wait for the first waves to meet and neutralize each other'.

They would wait for nearly half an hour before they received orders to press forward. The strategy largely worked, as Lydon himself could attest; he lost track of his kills after the first few minutes. His first Roman went down with a full-body strike with his caetra, knocking the combat-weary soldier down and then slashing once at his neck as he ran past. He could only assume that was the way he felled all the others; the pools of blood upon the grass and the bodies around them made his stomach churn, and his mind went blank rather than absorb the full extent of the carnage.

"It takes a true warrior to put the enemy in his sights and suspend all other thought, as predator upon prey," his father once told him and his brother when they were training. Before his father's return from Tingis, the words would have given him heart. Now they meant nothing.

It was perhaps the ninth wave when the Sertorians' strategy backfired. They had charged down the hill and slain many Romans, over and over, with much success. The battle was all but won, the overwhelming majority of Roman forces lying dead in the grass. The Romans retreated as the Sertorians gave chase, pulling the latter away from the hill at their backs and toward the Roman camp upon the nearby plains. A few more Romans fell, mostly by slingshot. The remnants of their forces were virtually annihilated, with only a few particularly spry stragglers throwing off their weapons and nonessential armor to run faster.

came dashing down the hill behind them.

"Wait, stop!" Alia called, socking Lydon in the chest as he collided with her outstretched arm, "Something is not right..."

Paelys and Lonus slid to a stop behind them. "What is wro-?"

"ROMANS!" a Lusitani cried out.

Lydon was on the cusp of a smart remark about the ones they just sent running with their tails between their legs, when he heard what sounded like a stampede behind them.

"We've been outflanked..." Paelys panted resignedly. A mass of Romans, energetic and tidy, unlike those the Sertorians were chasing, flooded down the hill upon which Lydon and his cohorts had made their stand all day. The brunt of theSertorian forces was gone, they had retreated when the Romans did. Those who remained to press for further Roman blood were now trapped between the out-flanking newcomers, as well as reinforcements from the original legions streaming out from the trees.

"Retreat!" Lonus called, but it was meaningless: they were surrounded on the two longest sides by hordes of Romans, embarrassed from recent defeats and encouraged by the fact that they had successfully beaten the Sertorians at their own strategy. A few of Lydon's peers tried to break for the forests or cliffs on the sides of the battlefield, and perhaps some of them made an escape. But most were cut down from behind as they ran, or tumbled down cliffs to their deaths.

Lydon would not die that way. He would not let the last thing anyone in this world saw of him be his trembling back. If this was the end, he would stand by his comrades and fight until he could no more. The Romans had parted him from too much of his family already, they would not take away even more. At least such was Lydon's resolve.

"Where did they come from?" Alia asked as the remaining forces pulled together in a defensive position, "The camp is in their way."

It was not any longer, if the towers of smoke from where the Lusitani camp had been were any indication. Lydon did not volunteer this; Alia had lost Talius two waves past and now she was staring her own death in the face, she did not need more despair.

"Lydon," said Paelys as the reality of their plight spread through the Sertorian remnants, "make for the cliffs to the east. Alia, you too. We will give you time."

"No," said Lydon and Alia in unison.

"I will not run from them again," Lydon affirmed, "I will take down as many as I can before- before the others call me to the afterlife."

Paelys smiled for the first time in many, many days, eyes glistening with love and pride, "You truly are the greatest man I have ever known."

"It has been an honor to fight at your side," said Lonus, "All of you."

"Which way to glory?" said Alia, "Take down the reinforcements first, or go straight for the newcomers?"

"Forward!" Paelys ordered those Sertorians still in formation, pointing with his falcata toward the original Roman forces, "Bleed them until their flesh is dry!"

"For Sertorius and for the homeland!" Alia called.

The remaining Sertorians roared triumphantly, running head-on at the approaching reinforcements. The Romans startled, clearly not having expected imminent death to rally the enemy stragglers.

The Sertorians tore them apart. Caetras slammed against them with a sickening thud, the fatigued Romans tripping over each other and falling to sword, spear, fist, boot, or even the edge of a shield bashing against skull. The reinforcements were devastated in less than a minute, and the newcomers howled with rage at the fall of their comrades.

"Forward!" Paelys yelled. The Sertorians ran at the enemy with all their strength, war cries, prayers, and jeers drowning out the angered Romans. They met like a storm, the booming thunder of shield upon shield and the lightning-flash of hundreds of blades in the light of the waning sun.

The Sertorians held their own for some time, but they were exhausted and outnumbered. Fatigue made them vulnerable to strikes, and one-by-one, they fell to the ground, never to rise. A Roman pilum grazed Lonus's arm, and the distraction from the blow was enough for another soldier's gladius to find his chest. He fell with a short grunt, falcata still in hand. Paelys cleaved the killer's head in a single strike.

The Romans were still falling faster than the Sertorians, but it did not matter in the long run. Soon there were only a few of the stragglers yet standing, spread out across the battlefield too much to be of any use to each other. The Romans surrounded Alia, Lydon, and Paelys, snarling and spitting at them like rabid dogs.

"Take them alive!" their centurion ordered, "The man who delivers killing blow will lose a month's wages!"

"I will see you soon, my friends," said Alia. She slid her falcata across her own throat, the life draining from her veins before her knees even hit the earth.

"Surrender, barbarians! Throw down your weapons and submit to the glory of Rome!"

"Fuck you and your glory!" Paelys roared, "Death to Rome!" He lunged at one of the Romans, whose spear pierced his chest.

"Jupiter's fucking cock!" the centurion griped, "At least capture the boy!"

"Papa!" Lydon sobbed. Instinctively, he ran to his father, but was stopped by a swift kick to the back of his knee. He fell upon his shield, swinging around with his falcata to hit any living thing in his path. He struck at least one, but another used his Roman scutum to bash Lydianus's falcata from Lydon's hand. It fell to the ground and the hundred-year-old blade was snapped beneath a dozen trampling Roman sandals. The Romans wrestled him back to the ground and put him in chains.

For the first time in his life, true fear seized Lydon's heart: not only was he facing Rome's fury head-on, he was completely alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the narrative only sounds pro-Sertorius because Lydon would probably still be very sympathetic toward him, and this is his story. Faking retreat isn't a war crime per se, but it's a dick move and sets a bad precedent. I don't know many details about all the various battles of the Sertorian War, I just came up with a logical-ish way that Lydon could have been captured early in the war so that he would be settled at the ludus by the time of "Gods of the Arena". 
> 
> Quick history lesson:  
> 195 BC: Cato the Elder becomes consul and goes to Hispania to put down a bunch of rebellions from the top of Iberia to the bottom, commits an exceptional set of war crimes and embitters the Lusitani to Rome forever  
> 105 and 102 BC: Sertorius goes undercover as a Cimbrian soldier, learns their language and impersonates Germanic warrior to get information on their movements for Rome. This is probably where he learned how to cooperate effectively with people from non-Roman cultures.  
> 82 BC: Sertorius pisses off the Marian leadership and is chosen to be the propraetor of both territories of Hispania, where he ingratiates himself with the native population and brings a (short) time of relative peace  
> 81 BC: A new, unfriendly dictator in Rome (Sulla--read or ask me about this guy, he's...interesting) has him pushed out of his position and replaced by Luscus, and he flees to North Africa and eventually settles in Tingis (modern Mauritania)  
> 80 BC: Lusitani representatives go to Tingis to recruit Sertorius to lead their war against the sitting Roman administration and reclaim his position; battle of the Baetis River/River Guadalquivir; Sertorian War begins.  
> 73 BC: Sertorius is assassinated; his assassin is then executed by Pompey for doing exactly what Pompey told him to do because he's Pompey and he can do what he wants I guess  
> 72 BC: Sertorian War ends  
> 71 BC: Pompey returns from Hispania, does a quick look-see for remaining Spartacus forces, then high-tails it to Rome and takes credit* for ending the entire Third Servile War because Crassus is distracted with mass-crucifying captured rebels to make himself look good
> 
> I really like this video about Quintus Sertorius and the Sertorian War, if yall are interested:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5kleX6F-cM
> 
> *This is SO FUCKING FUNNY, I won't flood the End Notes with this story but look it up or ask me about it and I'll gladly tell you because the poetic justice is...interesting lmao.


End file.
